


Spring and By Summer Fall

by supermatique



Series: The Kind of Trouble [4]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8056606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supermatique/pseuds/supermatique
Summary: Sequel to "The Lovers That Went Wrong," where Franky and Erica find out if they can side-step their history while navigating the present.





	1. Chapter 1

_“You said what?”_

_“I said I couldn’t be what she wanted.”_

_“You’re a fucking idiot,” Victoria said, shaking her head. She was actually angry, Franky could tell, without a hint of the usual jest in her tone to take the sting out of her rebuke. “You don’t want to be with her because you don’t deserve her?”_

_Franky scowled, looking away. “It’s complicated.”_

_“For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been after her. And now she’s sitting in your lap you just dump her?”_

_“Whatever.” Franky felt even unhappier with the alcohol swirling its way into her head. “It’s too late now.”_

_“I don’t get you, Franky. What are you so afraid of?”_

 

Franky’s afraid of fucking up, to put it simply. Not that she would tell even Victoria that. 

She needs to be alone. She needs to figure out who she is without someone else. She can be someone that Erica deserves, that way, and they might actually last if she knows how to function without a crutch. 

All the same, she wakes up each morning doubting the merit of her decision. 

On a good day she watches Erica and wonders how the hell she could have been so stupid. On better days she’s tempted to plead for another chance. They’re civil enough around one another, entirely professional when work brings them together, and on Friday evenings when they all go out for drinks the atmosphere is nothing but friendly. But the undercurrent is still there. Franky can feel it—it holds her rejection, Erica’s wounded pride, carries the frisson of tension whenever their eyes meet over a round of laughter. 

So now, standing on the porch of Erica’s house whose master bedroom she knows so intimately, her hand poised to ring the doorbell, Franky is very, very aware of the fact that she’s essentially thrown a very good thing away. 

Erica opens the door. “Hi,” she says, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The tension is there again. It’s fading with time; they have yet to regain that easy step they used to have, but each week the air seems to get lighter. It’s taken a while, but Franky’s finally lost the feeling that an elephant is sitting on her lungs every time Erica laughs, or speaks, or breathes.

“I brought wine.” Franky holds up a bottle of merlot she knows Erica favours. “Happy birthday.” 

Erica’s eyes brighten. “Thank you,” she says, and their fingers brush in the exchange. It's the first physical contact they've had in a while; they’ve been careful not to initiate anything. Franky falters. Maybe the elephant’s not quite gone yet. “Come in.”

The house is already full; Franky suspects she's only been invited because Erica caved and let Michelle from Strategy organise the party— _you can't do nothing for your big four-zero!_ to which Erica had replied _I don't think I need reminding_ —and as such anyone from the firm who has a passing relevance to Erica is standing in the living room, in the courtyard, around the barbie with drinks in hand and, overall, it doesn’t feel unlike any other post-work session. 

She's a familiar face to most from being a regular fixture around the office since her practical training started, and everyone knows of her at least, so it's not long before she’s pulled aside and her opinion is roped into a heated discussion over the best way to grill chicken. It’s not her forte, but nobody seems to mind.

A few of Erica's friends from outside work are present, and they're all huddled inside the house around the kitchen island drinking wine and laughing. Erica is in the middle of the huddle, giggling as she uncorks Franky's bottle of wine. She looks radiant. Possibly drunk. Definitely over the limit. 

As Franky watches Erica, she notices a familiar tall, blonde woman on the edge of the circle watching her in turn. It takes Franky a little while to place her as Sylvia, and once she realises who it is, she averts her gaze immediately. Something about Sylvia scares the shit out of Franky. 

“Franky, back me up here,” Steven says, pulling her attention back. “Put a brick over the meat, the heat’s more evenly distributed and you don’t get it drying out. Right?” 

Sounds legit. Franky nods. “Right,” she says, taking a drink from her beer bottle and glancing out of the corner of her eye to see if Sylvia’s still watching her. The not-work group have moved away from the window and Franky breathes a small sigh of relief.

-

They eat, they drink some more, and then someone brings out the cake complete with trick candles that don’t blow out. It’s a good laugh, no one more tickled by them than Erica, who threatens to dump a perfectly good glass of wine over the damn things after her third try. 

“Hip hip!” Franky crows when they’ve finished singing Happy Birthday, and when her eyes meet Erica’s over the spark of the flickering candles on hooray!, the undercurrent is swept away by their good cheer, hushed into silence for the time being.

She's in the makeshift bar in the kitchen pouring herself another gin and tonic when Erica walks up to the bench with a stack of paper plates for the rubbish. 

“Make me one, will you?” she tells Franky when she sees the Bombay Sapphire Franky’s holding. “Hold the tonic.” 

Franky laughs. “Want the bottle?” 

“I wish.” Erica sighs and leans with her back to the sink, watching Franky make her drink. “Why do I hate parties? They’re meant to be a time of celebration! and joy!” 

“Because it’s yours and a reminder of how old you are?” Franky grins, offering Erica the bottle; Erica rolls her eyes and pointedly reaches for the glass in Franky’s other hand. “It’s not so bad. We’re lawyers, we’ll take any excuse to drink. Hence, party."

“Wait till you’re actually a lawyer, you’ll see why we drink as much as we do."

"I can't wait. Give me those billable minutes."

Erica drains her glass and takes the bottle off Franky, pouring herself another healthy measure. "Not long now. How are you going with the coursework?"

"Yeah, all right," Franky shrugs. "Getting through." She's disappointed to realise that this is what their conversations have turned into—work related, careful to only skim the surface of inconsequential things. Knowing what they've had in the past, this is an unsatisfactory alternative. 

Erica looks just as short-changed as she is by this thread of dialogue. They stand in the kitchen, side by side, half-turned towards each other as they sip their drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going through my Google Docs in a fit of nostalgia/procrastination, and found about 5000 words of this that I abandoned. Thought I'd try and clean up what I can so we can all have a fit of Franky/Erica nostalgia.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I bit off more than I could chew with this one, I have a whole bunch of assignments due in the next month, but hopefully as holidays come up I'll be able to update more. For now, here is a short chapter. Thanks for reading.

Erica insisted on the party being held on a Sunday, presumably so that nobody would stay too long on account of work the next morning. Franky ends up one of the last to leave, helping a couple of Erica's uni mates gather up the recycling and cleaning up the detritus from a party well had. They're really cool, Erica's friends. Mostly lawyers, but also managers and executives. All well bred and who would probably never rub shoulders with an ex-prisoner otherwise. They don’t know who she is, what she means to Erica—no one at the party does, except for Sylvia. They think she’s just a young kid from the law firm, not part of the reason why Mark is nowhere to be seen. It feels a little surreal to Franky, as if she's living the life she was meant to have all along, except the timeline's been shifted a few years out of place. 

When they leave, shouting their farewells to Erica on the way to their taxi, it’s just her and Sylvia left, and Franky’s keen to make as quick an escape as possible. She dumps the recycling out the back, dusting her hands off as she turns to go inside, and walks smack into Erica on the way back into the kitchen. 

"Sorry," she says, but even the apology is awkward. With the bins there, the tiny corner is a tight fit for two people, and they stand there just staring at each other. Franky doesn't know what to do. Erica’s gaze is penetrating, even as Franky sizes up how drunk Erica actually is, and she’s caught like a deer in headlights. 

She realises they’re not moving because she's clutching Erica's waist, steadying them, and she yanks her hands away. "Sorry." 

Erica grabs the collar of Franky’s jacket and kisses her. 

Franky melts into it, savouring the warm, insistent press of Erica's lips against her own. She's missed this. Erica smells of perfume and alcohol, and she can taste the wine on Erica's tongue, wants to taste more. Her hands, seemingly with thought of its own, run themselves through Erica's hair, and Erica wraps her arms firmly around Franky's waist, hands splayed against her back. It's dizzying, the way their bodies mold together like every part of them was made a complement to the other. 

_You could have had her all this time_ , she thinks. _You threw it away._

Erica's eyes are bright when they part, her gaze searching Franky’s for something, and Franky swallows, trying to catch her breath. Her heart is beating so fast and the pounding makes it hard to concentrate. Her mind feels mired in some murky cloud. She wants, most of all, to kiss Erica again. 

Erica straightens Franky’s jacket, her hands lingering on Franky’s ribs. She runs her hand up Franky’s side, just skimming the swell of her breast before pressing harder and tracing the underside of Franky’s bra along her jumper. Erica's focused, paying no attention to Franky at all, as if examining a piece of pottery fresh from the kiln. 

Surely she knows what she’s doing. "Erica," Franky rasps, pulling Erica’s hands away with reluctance. Erica’s drunk. She doesn’t really want this—does she? “What are you doing?”

Erica shushes her, and even goes so far as to put a finger over Franky’s mouth. “Happy birthday to me,” she giggles. 

Oh. “I should get going,” Franky says, extricating herself as gently as she can. 

Erica keeps hold of her wrist. “How are you getting home?”

Franky holds up her keys, shakes them on the ring. “Drove.”

Erica frowns. “You’re not driving back.”

“I stopped drinking ages ago. I’m good.”

“Don’t get arrested,” Erica says vaguely. “Don’t go back to prison. The governors are a bit twisted over there.”

Franky’s seen Erica drunk before, and it’d be hilarious if her lips weren’t still burning from the kiss. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I don’t intend to." She bites her tongue and dares to add, "Got the governor I want right here.”

Erica huffs. She lets go of Franky this time. "Don't."

Damn. Why the hell had she gone and said that? She was lured into the history of their uninhibited banter, mistaking it for the present, and now she’s made an awkward moment even worse. She wants to apologise, but what is she going to say? _‘Sorry I made a bad joke’? 'I thought it'd be funny but I'm actually an idiot'?_

As she stands shifting her weight from one foot to the other, watching Erica watch her, she discovers exactly what she wants to say. And maybe, with Erica at a disadvantage, she won’t get a better chance to say what she’s too afraid to admit out loud when they’re both sober. 

"I'm sorry,” she says. Erica glances at her with a slight frown. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

It feels moot right now, the way Erica is staring at her.

“Rick, there's no space in your—oh.” Over Erica’s shoulder Franky sees Sylvia stop in the doorway holding a glass of wine in her left hand and a glad-wrapped casserole in the right. “Am I interrupting?” she asks, but the question is directed at Franky, and her eyes are like flint.

“No,” Franky says, the word stuck in her suddenly dry throat. She clears her voice and shoulders past Erica, only to be blocked by Sylvia. There’s a short stand off between them, where Franky is struck by a vision of the casserole dish flying out of Sylvia’s hand and onto her head. “I was just leaving.” 

Sylvia sighs and steps aside, the casserole thankfully staying firmly in her hands.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Franky tells Erica, and flees the house.


End file.
